


expositor beauregard; the seeing eye of ioun

by unicyclehippo



Series: Blue Girls Have The Most Fun [18]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: F/F, love beauregard or ELSE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:14:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21744316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unicyclehippo/pseuds/unicyclehippo
Summary: After the events beneath the Chantry, the Nein return to the archives of the Cobalt Soul to rest and recover. Despite all appearances, the Archives are more than just a library: these silent, marbled halls are still a temple, the scholars its guardians.
Relationships: Jester Lavorre/Beauregard Lionett
Series: Blue Girls Have The Most Fun [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1824289
Comments: 28
Kudos: 381





	1. Chapter 1

After the events of the clash beneath the chantry, the Nein are escorted back to the Cobalt Soul. It is, surprisingly enough, more of a protective thing than a prison thing, which is ideal honestly, and they are shown to a large room Beau recognises as a dormitory for the higher ranking librarians. Somewhere they can rest and recover and spend the night. The monks seem to know they would want to stay together; that, or they want to be able to watch them closely. 

'You are well, Beauregard?' Caleb asks in that slightly halting manner of his, as though he thinks such a question might be presumptuous, or poorly received. Smart man. It might have been, but he says it only loud enough for the two of them to hear. The two of them, that is, and also Fjord, who is standing solidly next to her so that she can lean against his shoulder. But Fjord is pretending so hard and so well that he can't hear them that hell, maybe he really can't. 

'Yeah. Yeah, I'm good, man.'

'You went down—'

'Ha. Went down.'

Caleb's expression goes carefully blank. Then, 'Hollah.'

'No.'

He shrugs. Awards himself with the smallest scrape of a smile. And, apparently satisfied that she is alright, if not perfectly hale, he turns and begins to make his way across the room that has been gifted to them. Strips off the grime-and-blood soaked coat as he goes. Shards of glass shake loose from the folds of that coat, clinking across the stone floor, and rather than try to clean it up now he just drops the coat entirely and collapses, exhausted, into his bedroll.

The others follow suit.

Yasha is still not meeting her eyes— _anyone's_ eyes, really. Jester yawns as she and Cad check over all of them to make sure they're not going to die in their sleep. Fjord, too, follows them around—he has a bit of a swagger to his step, and Beau clocks it as his own brand of discomfort, a too-forceful projection of confidence. He moves to Nott, speaks quietly to her for a minute before setting his hands on her shoulders. As he concentrates, his hands begin to glow with a verdant light and it seems to be that light, or whatever caused it, that draws a modicum of pain and tightness from her face. He wanders Beau's way next. 

'Poison duty, any poison to spare?' 

Beau grins. Socks him light on the shoulder, careful to pull the punch.

'Hey, hey,' Fjord steps back, hands raised protectively. 'Careful! I'm feeling sensitive after today—if we were putting a number system to it, I'd only have, like, five hit points left. You could _literally_ kill me with a finger,' he tells her, deadpan.

'Eh, you're not my type.'

Fjord groans. Wipes a broad hand over his face as he shakes his head. Sighing, he asks again, 'Poison?'

' _Hell_ no. This body is a temple.'

'What?' His pain-and-exhaustion glazed eyes clear after a moment, a little. Enough. 'Oh _shit_ , that's _right,_ you can't be poisoned. Great! Because between you and me?' he leans in. 'I only have, like, one of these left and I'm gonna give it to Caleb—I don't think he's poisoned but better safe than sorry, am I right?'

'Good idea. Right now, a sneeze could make him explode like a kicked cat.'

Fjord chuckles. Pats her shoulder gently, pulls her in to knock their heads together before he walks away, leaving her there at the door. She watches as he carefully negotiates rousing Caleb, ducks the bolt of fire the wizard sends up toward the wall, narrowly missing singing Fjord and the draping banners at the end of the next bed.

Trying to pick apart the low murmurs, half habit, half to make sure she hasn't missed something, hasn't missed something _important,_ she has to fight past her own exhaustion and the near-constant ringing in her eyes and, doing so, Beau almost misses Jester stepping up by her side. 

'Hey.'

'Hey, you.' Beau sucks in a sharp breath when Jester leans into her, tucks her head against Beau's shoulder. She wraps her arms loosely around Beau's waist, an exhausted hug. After a fraction of a second, Beau hugs her back. 'You alright?'

'Mm.'

Jester's hair is soft as Beau brushes her fingers through it. Clumped in places with blood and dark ichor, and Beau nearly cuts herself on a shard of glass, but soft. 

'Today sucked but...I honestly don't see how it could've gone better,' Beau continues. 'And you were amazing. Getting Yasha back—'

'That was Cad.'

'Sure, but you're the one that scried, the one that figured out she was...was still in there.' Beau feels Jester just shrug, noncommital. She tightens her hug in response, unable to do anything more. 'That thing you did to Obann was fucking sick too.'

'Oh that? It was nothing,' Jester denies, all coy, but Beau can hear in her voice that she's pleased by the compliment. She turns her head a little, adjusts her head just _so_ , and Beau's heart gives an unwieldy _thud_ against her ribs when Jester slots herself perfectly into the crook of her neck. 

Beau swallows. 

'You also—I didn't really thank you then, but you got me back up.' She tries not to straight up perish when Jester squeezes tight around her waist. Beau rubs her hand over the width of Jester's shoulders and upper back, firm and slow. 'Thank you for that.'

Jester nods. The tip of a curling horn nudges Beau's chin, scratches. Beau ignores it. Leans tentatively and then a little more weightily into the hug Jester offers. It's a sweet relief to trust Jester with a portion of her weight, the pain in her feet lessening somewhat, the ache in her fucked up ribs too.

Eventually, they split.

Everyone falls to sleep, except for Beau. There's an energy still singing in her bones, not needing to be punching out but more like she's searching for something that will properly settle her. Proof that they're safe, that her family is really _safe_. For now, she wants to make sure that the monks they were promised are guarding this section of the archives. 

On the way back to their room—the monks having assured her, several times, that _yes,_ Expositor, we are going to protect you, we won't let anything happen to your party, you can rest—she stops still in the walkway, one corridor leading to their room, the other into the main chamber of the library. 

The Rexxentrum division of the Cobalt Soul stands in a half dozen towers, rather than Zadash's solitary isolated tower. In the centre of these towers, beneath a grand domed ceiling, is this chamber, the great Reading Room. And there in the centre of it is sat a woman in the flowing grey robes of a librarian. Her hair is long and her face serene, and Beau would continue on without comment if not for the fact that there in the middle of her forehead is a third eye. 

Beau steps through the frame into the chamber. 

'Did you know you've got a little,' Beau points to her own forehead. 'Just a little—right there,'

REALLY? the woman asks, in a voice that sounds much like Beau's own voice, that dry, barely-there voice that sits forefront in her mind as she reads. YOU SPEAK IN SUCH A MANNER EVEN TO A GOD?

Beau struggles to calm herself, heart suddenly gripped vice-like in her chest between seizing lungs. They'd faced a real fucked-up Obann today, and glimpsed a _fraction_ of an ancient, god-like evil, but somehow none of that managed to shake her as much as hearing that simple confirmation. As hearing that voice in her mind, in the room all around her. 

'So. Okay. So, you're like... _real_ then.'

YES.

Beau nods. 'Cool. Ah—sorry.'

The old wrinkled face lights with a delighted smile. HOW LOVELY. A RARE GIFT FROM YOU. Something about the third eye and the growing smile assures Beau that the woman—the goddess Ioun, she figures—knows _exactly_ how rare those apologies are, and that Beau's knee-jerk reaction to that being commented on is a sour _get fucked_ , which she thinks but doesn't say. Because that is a god. Right in front of her. Whom she should not speak to in such a manner. YOU DID VERY WELL TODAY, BEAUREGARD.

_Her name_. From a _goddess_.

'I. Thanks—thank you.' Beau clears her throat. Glances awkwardly around to see if anyone had noticed the way she flushes a bit with the praise; there is no one close enough to see it, no one around at all—in fact, the Soul is eerily quiet and awash in a greying shadow that makes Beau wonder if they are still in the Soul at all.

Her boots, when she moves, make hardly any sound but the stone feels solid underfoot. She skirts around the domed chamber, closer toward Ioun and to the platform in the centre where she is sat, cross-legged. Despite being an actual, full-blown _god,_ she looks like any other ordinary human—plus the extra eye—and when Beau moves closer, she gestures to a folded mat Beau thinks wasn't there a moment ago. Still. Gods. That's how they work, right? Mysterious and shit like that. 

Beau takes her place on the mat, opposite Ioun. Folds herself into a matching pose. Her hands settle loosely on her knees and she lets her breathing slow, settle deep in her diaphragm. Her ki—deplenished, she had thought, entirely by the fight earlier in the day—ignites. She can feel it as it rushes through her body, carried along on the beat of her pulse to the points of pain, the places where her skin is still broken despite healing, those places her energy recognises as _other,_ as _wrong_ : bruises, contusions, the scraped skin stretched tight over sore knuckles. The great, barely closed gash in her chest that sends a low, warm pulse of pain through Beau with every breath. 

As she rests her body, Beau feels her tired mind drain of the slogging exhaustion. She opens her eyes—wonders when, exactly, she had closed them—and looks across to the woman, the goddess, now with clear and focused attention. 

Her skin is a warm brown, thoroughly wrinkled like ancient paper and spotted with age spots like spilled ink. The irises of her three eyes are a vivid, attentive violet and when she catches Beau's attention, she leans in. 

YOU MUST HAVE QUESTIONS, EXPOSITOR.

_She knows who I am, she actually knows who I am._

'Just a few,' Beau lies, putting almost all of her energy toward pretending to be cool and collected and not at all untethered beneath the gaze of her goddess, not at all like the entirety of herself has been taken apart like a book unbound at the spine and spread out page by page. 

Her goddess laughs, a dry sound like rustling pages. GOOD. ASK THEM. 

* * *

Morning arises broken and bright in a scattered prism through the stained glass windows. And panic. 

'Where is she?' Fjord demands of their guard, a monk freshly shorn. He shakes them by the collar. Hard. 'Where _is she?_ '

Caduceus hums a rumbling morning hum. 'Hold on. I can locate her, if she's close,' he offers. His eyes flutter closed, one hand reaching toward the light of the window. The flash of green from the strained glass seems to glow brighter, diffusing through the room until they are all drenched in it. He nods to the open door. 'She's close. Come on.'

Cad leads the way, but only barely. Jester is close at his side. Eventually, they come to a cluster of monks waiting—their eyes wide, murmuring with more excitement and surprise than any of the Nein's number has seen from these monks before—and the Nein dash forward, push through the crowd. After all they've seen, excitement is _not_ what they need, not now, not yet. 

It's immediately clear what the monks are interested in: there, in the centre of the reading room, is Beau. Sat on a low, round platform on a mat of lush heath-grey cloth and, surprising to her friends, appears to be meditating. Her chest rises and falls with slow, deep breaths. What causes Jester to lash out and grab at Caduceus, and at a monk on her other side, is the mark glowing upon Beau's forehead and the back of her neck—the light is thin, like watered paint, but glowing with undeniable power, purple and shimmering in the morning light. 

There, set carefully upon Beau's forehead, is a crooked mark, lines turning in and in upon themselves at sharp angles. The eye of Ioun. 


	2. Chapter 2

'How long—is this _norm—_ when will she wake up?' Jester fumbles her way through the question, finally settling on what feels like the most important one. Next to her, Dairon is examining Beau as best they can without touching; it seems as though she doesn't want to risk waking Beau, and fear for why that might be lurches in Jester's belly. 'Is she okay?'

'She appears to be perfectly healthy. These wounds,' Dairon points to the new scars, closed over. 'They've not grown infected. That is good. As to whether this is _normal_...' Dairon sighs. Rubs a hand over their bald head in an uncharacteristic sign of hesitation, of confusion. 

Zeenoth harrumphs. It's the closest word Jester has for the sound he makes, part upset, part scoff, part sigh. Shakes his head. 'It is most uncommon,' he tells Jester. Or says to the room at large, since his attention seems entirely focused on Beau. 'A legendary act, truly. For her—well, let me put it this way—I have _heard_ of this, of a true and deep communion with the Knowing Mistress, and I would not in a hundred of her lifetimes, nor in a hundred of my own, have said that _Beauregard_ would be capable of such a thing.'

'You underestimate her,' Dairon snaps back at him over their shoulder, tone harsh. 'Clearly.'

'Clearly.' 

He must sense Dairon's displeasure because he murmurs an excuse, retreats to the front line of monks waiting nearby. 

Jester almost stomps her foot. 'But is she _okay_?' she demands. Healthy is one thing, healed is another—but _this_? This isn't _Beau_. Beau is... Beau moves _constantly_ —moving through her exercises, stretching out her hands, wrapping and re-wrapping the bandages of her vestments, cracking her neck as she pours over her books, tapping her pencil against the page, against her teeth, against the bone of her knuckle to make that dull _tap tap tap_ in accompaniment of her thoughts. She doesn't just _sit still_. She _doesn't_!

When she says as much to Dairon, the expositor fixes her with dark, curious eyes and nods. 'I know,' they say simply. Their hand opens, waves in a small graceful movement toward Beau, and her long, slow meditation. 'And yet.'

'That isn't helpful! Say something _helpful_ ,' Jester demands. 'Why won't anyone help us? Why is everyone so fucking busy all the time being _awful_ and traitors and fighting each other and stealing and lying and when people need help they always, _always_ look the other way? Why doesn't anyone just _help_?' she nearly screams, words escaping her mouth on freezing breath that puffs white in front of her face. Across the room, she can see Fjord and Caleb turn from where they are talking with a resplendently clad individual—another cleric, maybe, come to examine Beau—and when the two take a half step toward her, faces stamped with worry, she shakes her head quickly. Waves them back.

Next to her, she feels Dairon do the same. Sees the gesture out the corner of her eye. 

Then, warm, dry hands are settling on her shoulders and Dairon guides Jester down to sit where she has been standing—pacing—on the platform with Beau, with Dairon. 

'I don't know if Beauregard is...okay,' she tells Jester quietly. Her hand settles with a comfortable weight onto Jester's wrist, over the pulse point; it isn't quite pinning the hand in place but almost. 'I am sorry if I do not seem to share your concern, but I assure you that is not the case. She is my student. Of course I am worried. But I have faith in the Knowing Mistress _and_ in Beauregard, and it reassures me. There is something about her that is uncommon.'

Jester nods. Sniffles. With her free hand, she wipes at her nose and at the frosted flecks in that cling to her lashes. 'Sorry for yelling,' she says, a little snottily.

Dairon shakes their head. 'Think nothing of it.' Their eyes travel back to Beau then and, after a moment, Jester follows suit.

She had been avoiding it, almost. It's scary to see Beau so still; it has only happened a few times that she can remember—when Beau had been cut down, had almost _died,_ laid out so still there, a bloody sacrifice on a broken altar. But as Jester stares, she can see the tell-tale movement. The flicker behind her eyelids. The rise and fall of her chest as she breathes. The occasional twitch of her fingers. Jester settles, relieved. Nearly laughs, watching Beau's fingers clench momentarily, reminded of the way that their puppy Nugget would try to run in his dreams. 

'There's a lot about her that is really great,' she tells Dairon, voice thick still with worry. Shakily, she says, 'She'll be okay though. Because she's strong. Right?'

_Have faith,_ a familiar voice says, speaking into the curl of her ear. A green-cloaked hand squeezes her shoulder and, like a whisper, like a breath, she feels a kiss pressed against her temple.

Jester nods again.

'I truly believe it. And as for what else you spoke of, Jester, I have no answer for that. No good answer. Others may say that it is in the heart of people to be cruel, to seek betterment for themselves at the cost of others. I would like to think it isn't so but...I know it is easy to be blinded. By hate, by vengeance. Greed. These are powerful forces and they can be manipulated. The Cobalt Soul... We know in the past that such things have been wielded as tools, are...fuelled, _fed_ , by powerful voices, or many voices speaking as one, telling small lies that are layered one upon the other. History, if you will.' Dairon's stern demeanour relaxes a fraction when Jester laughs quietly at that. 'We of the Cobalt Soul search archives, histories, memories even, for that which is contained _within_ those lies. We search for _truth_. Truth unstained. Truth unfettered. Truth in its sublime completeness. It is,' Dairon tells her, 'an impossible task.' She smiles then with the same wild eagerness Beau wears when she is confronted with a monster, something giant and frightening. The feral smile of taking on a challenge because she has to, and because she kinda wants to. 'Sometimes, if we are fortunate, we glimpse a _fraction_ of that truth. It is my belief that Beauregard—'

'Beau.'

Dairon inclines her head, acknowledging Jester's correction. 'It is my belief that _Beau_ is asking questions. Glimpsing that fraction of the secrets. And the Mistress is helping her.'

Jester snorts. Unfolds her cramping legs and stretches them out until they're almost but not quite touching Beau. For a moment, she lets her eyes trace over the image on Beau's forehead, before dropping her attention to Beau's oddly serene expression, to the relaxed and somewhat softened lines of her arms and hands resting so gently in her lap. Beau doesn't _look_ hurt, or scared. Jester hopes she isn't. She hopes she's getting what Dairon thinks she's getting. 'Your knowing lady came for Beau,' she tells Dairon. ' _Beau_ is the one helping _her_.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi im unicyclehippo on tumblr as well, feel free to swing on by & say hi or send me a prompt x


	3. Chapter 3

She's pouring through a tome on spellwork that Caleb would eat his left arm for, would set the whole _world_ on fire to get his hands on—considered safe enough for her to examine since she hasn't the skill to actually use anything contained in it, nor the ability to memorise the way Caleb does—when she feels it. A faint pressure on her shoulder, like the memory of a touch. 

Beau whips around, sure that she will see one of the other inhabitants of the great sprawling library behind her—but the Reading Room is largely empty, and there is certainly no one directly with her. 

_Weird_.

HAVE YOU FOUND ALL YOU WERE LOOKING FOR? That dry, crackling voice belongs to the Knowing Mistress, who speaks from her place in the centre of the Room. Her hair of paper runs out from her like an immense spiderweb, disappearing into the depths of the Library and floating, drifting about her head, wafting gently on an unfelt breeze. 

Beau straight up snorts. 'No. I think I could—' She bites her tongue on reflex. It's habit to keep the things she loves secret, safe with the only person she knows can keep a damn secret—herself. But Ioun is the _goddess_ of knowing shit, not spilling secrets, otherwise being a monk wouldn't be so damn hard, right? 'I think,' she starts again, staring down at the book in her hands, clutching it tight to her chest, 'I could probably spend forever in here. There's—so _many_ books, so much shit I want to learn, _could_ learn in here!' She cuts herself off, rocks back on her heels. Scratching at her neck with a sliver of a grin, she says, 'You probably get that all the time though, right?'

The goddess smiles but doesn't answer.

'I got sidetracked,' Beau admits, looking down at her scrawled notes. 'But I wanted to ask you something, and this might sound a bit...weird.'

ASK IT.

Beau slides her fingers over the back of her neck, up to the prickling hair of her undercut. She sets down the book in her other hands, and her notes, and picks her way across the papered and pillowed floor to stand before Ioun.

The goddess is immense and oddly small at the same time. She is more than she seems. Folded into place, she seems frail and thin, an old woman. Her hair of tightly coiled and collected paper, great grand locks, extend beyond her person, though, but the hair is obviously _part_ of her, and no matter how Beau looks at the goddess, she can't confirm it in any finite way but she is certain that there is no end to this woman and no beginning—the paper stretches outwards in infinite lengths, but where she sits, too, the world, the Library, must bend around her into the bowl-like space. The weight of her, the force of her presence, draws at Beau like gravity, like magic. Her voice is dry, crackled, but it contains at times edges Beau could cut herself on. When she speaks, it feels like _the_ word, like it is being written and spoken aloud for the very first, or the very last time, and every time between. The woman is power in a true form, incalculable in her dimensions. 

Beau has to go about making this offer, asking this question, in the right way. She _has_ to. 

'Can I punch you?'

In the silence that follows, Beau can hear the creak of the library. The grind of stone and wood and metal as the halls and floors rearrange themselves. 

'There's this thing I can do,' Beau continues, sweat beading all over her body under the force of three immense eyes staring down at her, peeling her apart under their scrutiny, scouring layer after layer of _Beauregard_ and filing it away somewhere. 'When I punch someone, I can...feel things about them. Learn things about them. In the flow of ki. And I figure, if you're the one who fought Thar—'

Light flickers around them, the shadows growing long. And if Beau didn't know any better, she would say that a little colour leeches from the soft glowing light that surrounds the goddess.

DO NOT SPEAK THIS NAME.

Beau just about swallows her tongue. Barely keeps her feet beneath the pressure of the command, the force of it in her mind. 'Right. The Chained One.' She waits; the goddess bows her head slightly. 'You fought him. Kicked his ass. And got - well, got this immortal wound—fully awesome, by the way,'

THANK YOU. IT IS A PAIN UNCEASELESS, THAT WINDS AND DRIVES AND DRILLS INTO THE ESSENCE OF WHO I AM TO CORRUPT ME.'

'Metal,' Beau nods. 'Maybe if I try and read you, I can understand a bit about...what it is. The injury. And from the injury, maybe _learn_ something about the Chained One. It's worth a try, isn't it?'

Ioun leans down over her, growing larger and larger though she hardly moves at all. She grows so large that the pupil of her eye is larger than Beau is tall.

ONE DAY, she tells Beau, sounding old and tired and reluctantly amused, I WON'T HAVE A BARD OR A MONK AS MY CHOSEN. I WILL HAVE A GOOD AND OBEDIENT CLERIC.

'You'll be bored as fuck,' Beau tells her. 'Unless it's someone like Jester. She's amazing - that'd be great fun.'

Something glints deep within that dark, endless pupil and Ioun pulls back. She reaches in toward herself. Hesitates, an oddly human gesture to belong to a goddess. Then, she opens the purple and grey robes. 

The wound is no puncture or slash or scar. It is indescribable, unknowable to someone like Beau who owns a mortal form. Ioun doesn't part clothes to show her side—she parts the understandable form she wears to show the endless _is_ , the then and now and will be, the seeing the sight the looking the knowing the finding the words the songs tales secrets whispers ideas, _the_ idea, the first thoughts and final words, the _is_ that makes her god, makes her what she is. Beau feels the pressure increase a hundred fold, a hundred thousand fold, feels more than hears the ringing in her ears before she loses the sound, and the hot slick of blood that starts to pour from her nose, her ears. She can deal with that later, though, and first Beau slides into a fighting stance and punches solidly into that Everything—feels the rush, the slam of knowledge like a wall of force, a tidal wave into her brain. _Is_ and _is not_ falls into two segments in Beau's mind—the influence of Ioun, no doubt, helping Beau to not fracture her mind into pieces. It hurts to think on, hurts beyond hurt, hurts to the core of herself to try and begin to understand the boundaries of what either of those things are. But Ioun reaches down to close the robes, pulling back and away, and as the pressure eases, she takes Beau and cradles her in paper dry hands. 

Red stains those hands like ink, soaks into those hands indelible proof of what was done. 

WELL DONE, Ioun hums, her voice soft and still feeling like a dagger spinning in her ears, her brain. YOU HAVE DONE SO WELL, BEAUREGARD, MY CHOSEN. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi im unicyclehippo on tumblr as well, feel free to swing on by & say hi or send me a prompt x


	4. Chapter 4

She's laying flat on her back when finally she wakes. All of her hurts like she's been beaten blue and bloody but worse than that is the ringing in her ears. Or maybe the way it feels like her skin is stuffed with cotton puffs instead of, like, organs and muscles and all that shit. She can't feel her body properly, and what she _can_ feel...hurts.

Distantly, Beau can hear someone yelling—can't make out the words but the rough, careless edge to the sound can only be a scream. Carefully, painfully, Beau struggles up onto her elbows and rolls onto her side, staggers to her feet. Are they under attack? Did Obann transform _again_? Did they lose Yasha—

Cool hands catch her when she stumbles. She starts to fight, draws her fist back with a snarl she feels but can't hear. Still just that ringing, the ringing in her ears. The movement, the ringing, sends her off balance and she's thankful for it because those cool hands belong to Jester. The rest of the world is churning, her eyes feel like they're spinning in their sockets, but she can see Jester. 

_Jes? What the fuck_ , she tries to say. If she manages, she can't tell—the words are garbled, slop together in her ears like so much mush. Jester's mouth drops open in a small _oh_ and she flutters over her, hands pressing cold to Beau's arms, shoulders, her cheeks, and then she starts to _cry_ —naturally, Beau panics. Eyes darting—free-wheeling—to see what could've upset Jester so much, she wraps an arm around the other girl's shoulders, tries gently to tug her somewhere safe. Behind Beau. Even if she can't see, can't balance, she can still be a meat shield, she figures. 

When her eyes finally snap back into focus, it is to see a large room. Stone and glass, domed at the ceiling with brilliant blue-stained glass. Far to either side, the walls stand floor to ceiling with shelves filled with books and tomes and rolled maps and scrolls.

_The Library_ , Beau thinks, and then her brain tugs. Flips over on itself. And she remembers—this is not the Library of Ioun. This is the Cobalt Soul. 

She is—was—laid out on the platform in the centre, though now she is standing on shaking legs. Beau scours the space for any sign of the Mistress but isn't surprised to find—or not, as the case may be—that she has gone. Not finding her, Beau's attention is pulled back to Jester. As gently as her rough hands, rough calloused fingers are able, she cups Jester's cheek and slowly, relying on memory instead of her own ears, she speaks as best she can.

'What's wrong?' she demands, stooping a little to try and see her friend's face. 'Where is it? What's wrong?'

Two cold hands press onto her own cheeks, stopping her from speaking—not because they are covering her mouth but because Jester pulls her very, very close and Beau can't think of a single thing to say. She can see blue eyes wide, glinting with tears, searching Beau's own eyes, and then Jester is blinking too fast and her eyes screw shut like she's trying not to sneeze. Or cry. That makes more sense. Or maybe she _is_ crying, but Beau still can't hear anything above the dull thudding pulse and an uncomfortable whine, now, like she's burst her eardrums somehow, like she gets after one of Caleb's fireballs hits too close to home but seven hundred times worse.

She guides Jester's hands down. Wraps her arm tighter around Jester's shoulder and, a little awkwardly, a little painfully, sits. Pulls her friend in. She's surprised to find that Jester's tears are hot where they drip down onto her collar. 

Eventually, cried out, Jester pulls back. 

She reaches clumsily for the sign of the Traveller on her belt and Beau can't smell the usual sugar and cinnamon that accompanies her magic—just iron, just thick, congealing blood. She swipes at her nose, surprised, and stares down at her fingers when they come away red. Beyond Jester, Beau sees with clearing eyes, are dozens of monks and Beau's stomach sinks. This is it—she's gonna get kicked out for sure this time, for bleeding all over the Rexxentrum branch. They probably have all kinds of no bleeding rules in the main room, probably know all of the bad shit she's done, they're probably gonna take back the Expositor raiment and position, and the thought of setting the record for fastest removal from office doesn't fill her with glee at all. It just makes her feel sick to her stomach. 

Jester’s healing magic makes Beau’s ears _pop_ mightily. Hurts like a sonnuva, which Beau spits out on instinct—if the monks are getting rid of her, it doesn’t matter that she swears up a storm inside their most adored spaces anymore. The magic shifts to her nose, and it itches like a spider scuttling about as Beau assumes the tiny tender capillaries stitch back together and heal over. She tastes a thick gob of blood in the back of her throat. Hacks it up. Spits it into her palm.

‘Oh god,’ she groans, and then laughs, grabs Jester—with the non-bloodied hand. ‘Hey hey! I can hear again!’

Jester offers her a strained smile. ‘Hey hey,’ she mimics, but the words are shaky at best. She opens her mouth and, beiing so close, Beau can hear—with her good as new ears—Jester's shaky breath, see the way sharp teeth have worried at her lower lip. She looks, for a moment, like she’s going to say something and then Beau sees it. The flash of something in Jester's eyes, so quick, so _small_ , Beau would have missed it if she hadn’t been literally staring into them. Jester smiles. ‘I’m glad you’re okay,’ she says, before pulling out of Beau's hold and moving quickly away, skirts rustling and boots tapping over the stone in the peculiarly silent room.

Beau watches, bemused, as Jester leaves, hurries through the parting crowd of silent monks. And then watches as the monks close back in their ranks and continue to stare. She struggles to stand again. Jester might have healed her busted nose and ears but it still feels like she went forty fucking rounds with a storm giant. Scanning the room for another— _any_ other—familiar face, Beau latches with undisguised relief onto Zeenoth. Her old teacher hurries toward her almost on an identical but opposite path to jester’s departure.

His head is lowered when he reaches her, she notes. Like he’s hiding his face.

‘Come with me, please. Dairon is eager to speak with you.’

‘Uh—sure. You alright, dude? You sound like you just watched someone shit on the floor. Again.’ She whacks his arm gently, winces when she remembers him being basically bisected. ‘Ow. Sorry, dude.’

Zeenoth lifts his head and she sees now his red ringed eyes.

‘Have you been—‘ She cuts herself off. Clutching at her side where an old fucked up rib is making itself _profoundly_ felt, Beau moves close. Lowers her voice. ‘Dude, have you been crying? Is everything okay? Not emotionally—like, is the city under siege again? Not that I’m not, I mean, emotions are important or whatever.’ She pats his shoulder awkwardly. Drops the hand when he looks askance at it. ‘You can, uh, talk to me? If you want.’

‘Thank you, Beauregard.’ A beat, then, ‘Dairon is eager to speak with you.’

//

Dairon waits until Zeenoth has closed the door behind him on the way out before drawing Beauregard into an embrace. She would call it a hug but it’s so close and feels so weighty, so important, that the word hug doesn’t sound right. Dairon embraces her, closes their arms tight around Beau's body—lifts her nearly clean off her feet, an easy feat with Beau feeling weak as a kitten, and holds her for one, two, three long long moments before finally they breathe out a shaky breath and set Beau back on her feet.

‘Forgive me,’ she says, voice cracked. Dairon’s eyes, too, are ringed in red. ‘I was afraid—‘

‘Afraid of _what_?’ Beau blurts out. ‘Zeenoth has been crying too! What the hell is going on?’

Dairon stares at her for a long minute. Then tells her, ‘You died, Beauregard.’

Beau blinks.

‘Oh.’

The ringing in her ears returns at a high whine—the _ringing_ in her _ears._ The _pain._ She pats out with a hand, feels for the back of one of the chairs. Has to sit.

‘Oh. I mean, shit. Figures you’d be the one to tell me though, you never pull punches. That’s what I—what I like about you,’ she says with a dazed kind of laugh.

Dairon squats beside her chair.

Beau stares down at her hands, at the blood smeared on it. ‘...Was I poisoned?’

‘No.’

‘Did the Inevitable Bitch get me?’

‘No. No one has seen her since the fight.’

Beau nods. ‘Then what—what happened?’

Dairon’s worried gaze turns something more familiar, equal parts comfortable and discomforting. Curiosity. ‘I do not know, Beaure— _Beau_. But perhaps if I tell you what I _do_ know, you can fill in the blanks. Yes?’

She tells Beau then of the call from the Rexxentrum branch. How she had come through the teleportation portal and been shown to a room with Beau seated, meditating, in the centre. How she had been seated there for well over a full day, and how on her forehead in indelible light had been glowing the mark of Ioun.

Beau reaches up to her forehead. Skims her fingers over the smooth, unblemished skin. ‘Huh.’

‘Now,’ Dairon says, leaning back in their own chair. ‘Your turn.’

Beau scratches at her cheek, where the thin rivulets of dried blood are starting to crack and itch. ‘Sounds about the same. Went into the room, saw Ioun—trust me, I know how that sounds, just...go with it. Sat with her, she did something and we appeared in her library—Dairon,’ Beau whispers when her mentor sucks in a sharp breath, ‘It—you—it’s like nothing you have ever seen, you have no _idea_. Everything you want to know, could ever want to know, she has it. _All_ of it. The history of every person who has ever lived,’ Beau trails off, eyes drawn to a far off point as she remembers the towering, shifting lines of shelves, the scent of old paper and varied inks and leather and dust that had been so strong, as if those were the only scents that existed. The only true scents. ‘I spent...fuck, I don’t even know. Hours? Days? Reading everything I could find.’

‘Incredible,’ Dairon breathes. They reach out for Beau, fingers trembling like they're afraid Beau isn't there. No. The look in those dark eyes is different, changed; they reach with shaking fingers toward Beau as though she is somehow holy, somehow divine. Stops themself just before touching.

‘And then I punched her.’

‘Pardon?’

‘I—Ioun agreed, I didn’t just punch her,’ Beau explains, and then as the painful memory resurfaces—fogged and largely empty—she recounts it to Dairon. The faint scraps of understanding she still has. ‘She was wounded by him, by it, the Chained Oblivion. I thought if I knew—if I could learn something _real_ about that instead of just stories and legend, we could stand an actual chance,’

Of all the reactions Beau expected, Dairon throwing their head back and _laughing_ wasn’t one of them. They wipe tears—of relief, of joy—from their eyes and laugh themself empty, shaking their head.

‘Oh gods, Jester was right,’ Dairon tells her, grinning. The expression is unsettling. Beau has always seen Dairon as a frowner. ‘You _were_ the one helping Ioun.’

‘I mean, shit. Yeah. I guess I was.’ Her. Human, magicless Beau. Helping a _god_. A real world ending, world starting, near all-seeing _god_. ‘Hey, Dairon?’

‘Mm.’

‘What do you mean I died?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi im unicyclehippo on tumblr as well, feel free to swing on by & say hi or send me a prompt x


	5. Chapter 5

She climbs the steps to her room slowly, going over everything Dairon had told her and wondering how, if it all, she is supposed to thank Jester for literally saving her life. Or—apologise? It’s not like it’s _her_ fault that she looked into the true face of her god and then tried to extract information about a divine being, which caused her to die a little—oh, no, it actually is entirely her fault, since she’s the one that suggested the whole thing—and to hear that Jester had been there, waiting, watching, had thrown herself into action, had brought her back…

Beau makes it to the door, pushes it open with a gentle rap of her knuckles on the wood. 

‘Hey Jes? Dairon told me what happened—what you did, for me, and—‘ 

She stops. There’s something wrong. Something…off. 

Jester is standing seemingly frozen in the centre of the room—not literally, thank the gods, but she isn’t _moving_ and she’s standing unnaturally still, head lowered chin to chest. When Beau skirts around so she can see her face, she finds that Jester’s eyes are open and blank, unseeing, staring down to the floor.

‘Shit. _S_ _hit_ ,’ she swears again with a little more feeling. Closing the distance between them, Beau puts her hands on Jester’s cold wrists as Jester had done for her. The other girl doesn’t look up, so Beau kneels. Gets in her line of sight as much as she can. 

‘Hey, Jes,’ she whispers. Her voice is hoarse, almost entirely from being briefly dead. 

Jester stirs enough to blink, shake her head. She lifts a hand. Sets it on Beau’s cheek. 

‘Hey,’ Beau says again, and she turns her head slightly to kiss the swell of Jester's palm. It sends a jolt through her—shock, nerves, panic—but she can totally explain it away later. ‘Are you okay?’ she asks. Shakes her head before Jester can answer, if she even intended to. ‘Stupid question. Just - are you -’

Blue lips curve into an empty smile. ‘Okay?’

‘…Yeah.’

Jester sighs. The sound is stifled, like she’s pressing it as small as it can go. ‘Yes. yes. I’m fine—I’m _always_ fine, Beau, don’t you know that?’

‘O-kay.’ Beau stands slowly. ‘I’m detecting a hint of _not fine_.’

‘What gave it away?’ Jester looks up, finally. Stops at Beau’s chest. 

Beau looks down, at the neatly healed scar—and at the blood dried there, and the shimmer of diamond dust from a hasty revivify. Before she can speak, before she can reassure Jester—that she’s alive, that she’s _okay—_ Jester speaks. The words are flat. Neatly contained, compressed.

‘I'm...mad.’

Okay. Not what she expected. Beau rocks back on her heels; brain still feeling like so much sludge more than anything that actually _works_ , she can’t figure out what the right response is to that. So, she doesn’t try. 

‘You don’t look mad. You don’t _sound_ mad.’

Jester laughs. The sound catches, hiccups. She shakes her head. ‘I can’t,’

‘Let it out.’

‘I _can’t_ ,’

‘Sure you can.’ 

They’re standing close together. Beau does the only thing she can think of right now—she shoves her. She doesn’t know, doesn’t have the first _clue_ how to get this out of Jester gently. She prods her, jabs her in the shoulder—hard. ‘Let it out!’

‘Beau!’

‘Get mad! Get angry! Say what you want to say!’

She pokes at her again; Jester smacks her hand away. 

‘I don’t _want_ to—‘

‘That’s some real bullshit right there,’ Beau dares to accuse.

‘Stop it! I could _hurt_ you!’

‘I don’t believe you would ever—‘

‘It doesn’t matter what you _believe_ ,’ Jester snarls. Her teeth glint under the light of the lanterns, the shadows swinging wildly as Jester suddenly _lurches_ , throws herself away from Beau. ‘Don’t you _get_ that? Things are unfair,’ she says, and her breath catches as she drags it in, crumples out of her under the weight of a slew of biting, scrambling words that _pour_ from her like she’s been keeping them bottled in for a very, very long time. ‘Things are unfair, _life_ is unfair, and it doesn’t _matter_ if I don’t want to hurt you because I will! That’s what people _do_! Good people have bad things happen to them, and bad people don't _care,_ they _like_ hurting people!’ Jester tells her, and a frustrated, hurt scream rips out of her. 

Beau watches in awe and ache as the air around her grows thick and white and cold, crystals slowly forming. The temperature drops suddenly, stinging at her lungs with each breath. 

‘You want to know? Why I’m mad? I’m mad that Yasha’s _wife_ died and then he took—he took _advantage_ of her and he _stole_ her from us and she nearly killed Fjord and she nearly killed you and she didn’t want to do _any_ of that! I’m mad that Fjord’s captain doesn’t _care enough_ to _find him_ , I’m mad that _N_ _ott, Veth_ got—‘ The word cracks with a sob. ‘Got _killed_ and put into a body she hates. I hate that we keep going into fights and getting hurt and leaving people behind. I hate that everyone is fighting in some war that _no one_ seems interested in stopping.’ Her hands lift to her head, and sink, clawing, into her hair. Tugging, like maybe if she pulls hard enough she can—what? Stop screaming? Fix something? It sounds like Jester is trying to stop, but the words and thick, bubbling tears have started pouring out and she doesn’t seem to be able to stop it. Not this time. ‘I’m m-mad,’ she hiccups, ‘because everyone seems to think I’m crazy, that the Traveller doesn’t exist, even though he has saved your life _so many times_ , and - and because my dad is - is a _slave trader_ and I got _abducted_ and Molly _died_ and I couldn’t save him, and if I had been there maybe I - maybe I—I’m a healer who doesn’t heal people, and it’s my fault, I should have been there, I could have _saved him_ , I would have _tried._ I promise I would have tried,’ she cries, voice cracking.  It’s eerie, and powerful, and _sublime_ , to see it all finally come out. To have wave after wave of fury and pain and _hurt_ crash over her and into the room, like Beau is standing in the still centre of a hurricane, one that _J_ _ester_ has summoned, and the whole world is finally, rightfully, crashing down around them. It feels like it's been cracking for a long, long time and this feels right. Painful, and awful, and _sublime—_ but right. ' I spent my whole life trapped in a room and I _can’t_ be mad about it because I _love_ my mama and I understand _why_ , but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t _hurt,’_ she screams, and the crystal wall, the ice, and the cold, and the scream tears out from her. Jester crumples down there where she is standing in the middle of the room, panting hard.

Beau waits a moment. Then, carefully, she picks a path across the ice. It crunches underfoot and she slips a bit—but it’s cool, no one noticed. 

Reaching jester’s side, she hesitates. What if Jester doesn’t want it? What if Jester wants to be left alone? What if, after saying all of that, she can’t stand to have Beau near, to have Beau look at her? She stops with her hand outstretched—and then closes the distance again. Kneels behind her in the crackling shards of ice that break and poke at her knees. She brings Jester into a hug, arms around her waist. She isn’t going to leave Jester alone. 

She wonders, distantly, if Jester remembers the last time they were like this. Whether she remembers what they had said. 

Jester is still clutching her head in her hands. She isn’t sure if she can even hear her. 

‘I love you, Jes.’ Beau tightens her hold as best she can, still weak as a kitten. Looking about at the ice that covers the room, she lets out a shaky breath. ‘God, you’re fucking incredible. That was _incredible_. I knew it would be.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi im unicyclehippo on tumblr as well, feel free to swing on by & say hi or send me a prompt x

**Author's Note:**

> hi im unicyclehippo on tumblr as well, feel free to swing on by & say hi or send me a prompt x


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